


#summeromens

by bookmarksorganization



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Awkward Conversations, Aziraphale was friends with Oscar Wilde, Canon-Typical Drinking, Crowley and his loose following of human science, Crowley reads, Crowley watches Aziraphale read, Food mentions, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Rating May Change, angst but soft, description of a burn wound in chapter 3, notes on camp, sometimes a conversation takes fifty years, tags to be added as we go, the high speed bouncing DVD logo screensaver that is Crowley's mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25256437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookmarksorganization/pseuds/bookmarksorganization
Summary: These prompts are fromsparkofgoodnessviaher tumblr.Thanks for the prompts! <3
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 21





	1. sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't decided if I'm going to put these together into one bigger story arc, but these are all working within same continuity/happening in the same world.

* * *

_July, 1955 - **British Museum (Natural History)**_

* * *

“There are more grains of sand then stars in the sky.”

The words found their way into Crowley’s ear and slid around in a couple of vertical loops—like those particularly ambitious human roller coasters—before bouncing somewhere up to by the frontal lobes.

He narrowed his eyes at the tour guide.

* * *

_A week later - **London Zoo**_

* * *

“Do you think that there are more grains of sand on this planet than stars?”

Aziraphale looked up from the placard he’d been reading, not following. “More grains of sand then stars,” he repeated.

“Yeah.”

Crowley watched Aziraphale think that over, then shake his head. His hair was a shining white, under the clear summer sky. “I don’t know,” the angel said.

Crowley wandered off to go look at some birds.

* * *

A couple of hours after that, they were walking along the lake at Regent’s Park. They’d lapsed into silence—the angel contemplating whatever he contemplated—books or dinner or something.

“I should know how many stars there are, right?” Crowley said. “A guess at least.”

“What?”

“That was _my_ project, you know.”

Aziraphale stopped walking (Crowley didn’t), and went very still. “I—ah—” He nodded and had to take few quick steps to keep pace.

It was definitely in the... a lot of billions and there was no way there was _that_ much sand on Earth even if it was a constantly increasing resource. And that tour guide was—well, misinformation in a science museum was pretty devious, in fairness… unfairness?...even as a product of incompetence. 

There wasn’t any way to _count_ the sand, so that was out. Maybe some humans would try.

* * *

_October, 2012 - **A.Z. FELL AND Co.**_

* * *

“Angel.”

“Yes?”

“They figured it out, the stars/sand thing.”

“What ‘stars sand thing’?”

“Which there are more of, some human researchers in Hawaii worked it out.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale said it like he was open to Crowley continuing.

“Stars, by far. Sand, they say it’s uh…” He focused—fished around for the numbers he’d made a point of committing to memory. “Seven quintillion, five hundred quadrillion grains. But stars, that’s seventy thousand million, million, million stars in the observable universe.”

Aziraphale cocked his head in that funny way he’d do when presented with a new piece of information. Crowley’d noticed it the first time after telling him his new name: that little wordless gesture that said _‘hmm’_ without any sort of determination.

“But you know what else they said,” Crowley continued.

The angel smiled a little. “What?”

“They said, that there’s the same amount of _molecules_ , in like _ten_ droplets of water.” He paused, let that sink in.

Aziraphale frowned, opened his mouth—

“Which is _shit_ ,” Crowley barreled on. “Because they were just copying the same thing over and over and over. Even for the ones we weren’t doing by hand we at least had a pretty complex randomization engine going, and we still had to _check_ everything at the end. There’s no similarities between what we were doing and what Molecules were doing.”

“Very different,” Aziraphale agreed, with a nod that was just a bit too solemn to be serious. 

Appeased, Crowley picked up his glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Crowley read NPR? https://www.npr.org/sections/krulwich/2012/09/17/161096233/which-is-greater-the-number-of-sand-grains-on-earth-or-stars-in-the-sky


	2. ice cream

* * *

_**A few weeks after the world didn’t end** \- 2019_

* * *

Aziraphale watched a droplet of condensation slide down the exterior of the tulip-shaped sundae glass. The ice cream inside was untouched. He’d ordered it—gone through the trouble of looking over the shop’s menu at length and picking just the right thing, and now he was just sitting in front of it, sans desire.

“Not in the mood for ice cream?” came Crowley’s voice.

Aziraphale looked up, then back down at his dessert. He held a hand up to it—his fingers a hair’s breadth away from making contact—and felt the warmth of Crowley’s magic holding the temperature stable and keeping it from melting.

They had been sitting there for quite some time.

Aziraphale started to mutter “You—”

“Everything alright?”

There was a time when Crowley wouldn’t have asked so openly. Less than a month ago, he would have couched it in some other inquiry or suggestion. If he would have noticed… he would have noticed, though, wouldn’t he?

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale said, softly.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

“I guess so.”

Crowley took him back to the bookshop. 

Aziraphale unlocked the door—basically running on muscle memory—and they went inside. Crowley closed it behind them. He lifted a hand to snap the blinds shut on all the windows with a familiar, easy motion. “Do you want a drink? Cocoa? Tea? Alcohol?”

“Ah—tea would be good if you don’t mind.”

“No problem. Go settle in the back. Or wherever. I’ll find you.”

Aziraphale wandered over to his desk and sat at it. He took in the view of his bookshop—the place he called home: the furniture—old and ancient, the books, the rugs… even the dust. The way he’d always known it. He never saw it gone—never really had the loss of it settle in his sense of the world—though he’d believed Crowley immediately. It had been one shock among many, at that point. He'd even forgotten it had burned, for a time.

Crowley returned with a winged mug and a tumbler meant for liquor that instead carried the smell of strong, undiluted black coffee. He set the mug down by Aziraphale and turned to settle in with his own drink on the couch. He took off his sunglasses—set them down beside him—made himself vulnerable, while sober, on a late-August afternoon.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“Do you?”

“I don’t know what’s bothering you, Aziraphale. But…” he cringed a little, looking uncomfortable.

“On our own side,” Aziraphale offered.

Aziraphale didn’t know why he said it—he’d always had his sense of gallows humor—and Crowley flinched. It was a small, sharp hesitation. Aziraphale stood, hands up and fluttering. “Oh, oh I didn’t mean to—”

Crowley held up a hand. “It’s fine. _I know._ Just—”

They hadn’t discussed their fight, yet. Things were still raw. And it was Aziraphale’s fault. 

“Quite,” Aziraphale managed, and took a seat again. He drew in a deep breath—exhaled, met Crowley’s eyes. “I can’t relax. I just keep worrying. I keep wondering when they’re going to come back. That they’ll figure it out.”

Crowley’s expression was one of utter understanding. “I do, too,” he said, voice even.

“They’d kill you—if they could. They’re not going to forget and forgive.”

“Neither will your side.”

“No.”

They were quiet for some time.

“So we learn a new fear,” Aziraphale said, eventually. “A new What-If.”

Crowley seemed to think about that for a very brief moment—his gaze flicking away and back. “I don’t think it’s that different, honestly.”

The punishments they’d both feared for Crowley hadn’t changed. Aziraphale’s fate had become substantially more grim, but, how much of his previous expectations had been a product of denial?

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale said.

“At least we can be… y’know, friends now.”

“Is that worth it?”

“Freedom? Not hiding anymore? Having the world as not-a-smoldering-rock? It’s worth the risk,” Crowley said, and he smiled faintly.

Aziraphale’s corporation was so tense with anxiety. He took another deep breath—sighed, tried to trust that he would be able to relax eventually. “I agree.”


	3. burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (just a content note here that this chapter contains some description of a second-degree burn)

* * *

_**Mayfair, London** \- 1941_

* * *

There were traces of smoke, but mostly he smelled clean—like slightly stale air and old paper and the protection of a holy being. It was a very-Aziraphale thing: to keep them both unsullied from the dust and ash as the world exploded around them.

The elevator dinged. Crowley stepped into the hallway that led to his flat, walking gingerly. The very expensive shoes he wore were made of stiff leather and they weren’t doing his feet any favors.

London was dark outside his windows. He’d used to leave the light off—come back to the city shining through into his flat—casting it all gold and silver. These days he kept some lamps on.

He sat down heavily onto his couch—leaned back, sank into it, and took a deep, tired breath. He took off his hat—set it down next to himself. Then, the sunglasses.

He needed a nap. It had been a long day, and no small feat pulling off the last-minute interventions needed to bring a Luftwaffe plane off-course and onto Crowley’s desired schedule—when he’d realized just how much trouble the angel had gotten himself into.

Crowley leaned forward. He glanced over at a lamp. It brightened. He lifted his leg up, placing it over his knee at the ankle, and began to undo the laces of his Oxfords.

Sliding the shoe off was an uncomfortable press of leather, but then the sock _stuck_ when Crowley went to peel it off. 

It wasn’t too bad. His foot was a bit swollen. The skin was inflamed, red, paler toward the soles where things had blistered and edged into second-degree burns.

He felt himself smile. It was funny. The whole thing was funny. Aziraphale had been quiet at first, on the ride back to his shop, but then he’d shifted into awkward small talk—explaining what his plan had been as he’d clutched the satchel of books in his lap. It didn’t feel like things had changed, not really.

Maybe they were fine.

Shame the holy water had all gotten splashed or evaporated or something with the bomb.

He summoned a large bowl of cool, mundane water and took off his other shoe and sock. With the bowl on the ground, he eased his feet in. The relief was quick.

Holy wounds to a corporation couldn’t be healed by demonic power. He was looking forward to a couple of weeks of mild discomfort. 

He could sleep through it, but—what if Aziraphale called or something? If Crowley didn’t answer, would the angel assume Crowley was ignoring him? 

He’d been back awake for almost ten years. Asleep for sixty-or-so-before that. The world was in a particularly messy period. 

The angel didn’t really sleep, and unless that had changed, close to a century had passed for him. He’d seemed… pleased—to see Crowley. After assuming the worst, but… angelic biases.

He’d said he’d get used to it. _Anthony_.

The hopping from foot to foot had undercut the polish, but it had still been a pretty clever operation. Aziraphale had seemed impressed. Not that it took much.

Gave him a ride home. Maybe they’d see each other again. In a year or a decade or a month. 

Crowley had managed it. 

He laughed, unexpectedly. And then he laughed again, louder, and he couldn’t stop. He laughed until his eyes watered and tears ran down his cheeks, some abstract weight eased off his shoulders, full of feelings he didn’t understand, and very tired.


	4. camp

* * *

_**Soho, London** \- 1964_

* * *

Crowley pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Angel.”

Aziraphale looked up. He was near his cash register, attending to something out of sight below the countertop. The shop was blessedly empty.

Crowley approached. He hadn’t been able to think of much of a preamble, so he just set the book down in front of the angel.

Aziraphale properly stopped what he was doing and leaned forward to examine it. “ _Partisan Review_ ,” he recited.

Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale lifted his gaze back up to Crowley. There was an unspoken question there—about why Crowley was marching into his shop and presenting him with a new book—all of those things likely a point of curiosity: _presenting_ , and _new_ , and _book_.

“It’s an essay,” Crowley said. “Well, it’s got a lot of stuff in it. I didn’t bother with most of it. But the part that says _Notes on Camp_ , it was… something.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a fun sort of thing. _’Camp’_ is such a…” He shook his head—skipped past selecting an adjective. “And it’s a—she sort of explores it—Susan Sontag. It’s a bit modern for you but I thought you’d enjoy it.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up—softened—surprise and contentment and appreciation all shining out and Crowley stopped himself from literally taking a step back, but it was too much and he desperately thought of a subject change. He seized on the first thing that occurred. “What are you doing?” 

That caught Aziraphale off guard. He hesitated, glancing about as if unsure of what Crowley meant, then, “Oh.” He lifted a large book into view. “Recordkeeping.” He set it back down. “But, a good time for a break, I think. Could I interest you in a drink?”

Crowley gave another nod. He waited, while Aziraphale closed up, weaving in place a bit and taking in the view of the shop from where he stood. All the same as it ever was.

They sat where they always did. It had only been a few months—since the last time. Maybe a couple of years, before that. Aziraphale passed Crowley a tumbler of some sort of whiskey. They raised their glasses to each other in a silent toast.

It was scotch. Something oakey and smooth and prohibitively expensive, if the angel had actually purchased it, which he’d almost certainly done.

“So,” Aziraphale said. “ _’Notes on Camp.’_ ” He’d brought it back with him and was leafing through it. “Your decennial foray into the written word.”

“If that.”

The angel’s lips quirked in a smile, and he was quiet. It was a lie they both played along with. 

Crowley did a lot of reading. Most often for practicality’s sake. For work. But not just. He read newspapers, and scientific journals and textbooks and even the occasional history book—to get the human perspective on things—literature, in the prose-as-art sense of the term, was rare. 

Occasionally the fact that he’d read something came up. And Aziraphale wasn’t always impossibly thick. With this, he had grace. A fantastically duplicitous, in the nice way, sort of grace where it was their game. He’d either make no mention of the fact that Crowley was rambling on about some paper, or he’d make a joke of it. Ah, the Serpent of Eden has bothered with an intellectual pursuit. What a rarity. A momentary lapse in his very-busy-fiendishly-unscheduled timetable filled with rakishness and miscreancy. 

Aziraphale was focused on the open page. “Ineffable,” he murmured.

“Thought you’d enjoy that one.”

“And Oscar.”

“You know what camp is, right?”

A flick of the eyes upwards and a raise of eyebrows. Of course he did. _Soho._ When had he learned, Crowley wondered. His brain could spin out about that— a flurry of possible scenarios.

The angel’s smile had stayed. He liked it. There was the faint sound of a page being turned in the quiet of the shop.

After moments, something in the text had shifted his expression slightly. Crowley couldn’t bring himself to ask what. And then the angel laughed, a low chuckle. He glanced up at Crowley. “This is very clever.”

“I thought you’d think so.”

“Mmm.” Then, after a few more minutes, “I think you would have liked him very much.” He must mean Oscar.

“I think I would have. He seemed like a fun sort,” Crowley said. Aziraphale tended to befriend the most interesting humans, when left to his own devices and not acting on behalf of Heaven. “You and the Arts.”

“The film references are mostly wasted on me, I’m afraid.”

“I figured they would be. You might like some of them. Um.” Crowley wasn’t sure how to suggest they could watch them sometime. TV wasn’t the same as a theatre. TV was new.

He observed Aziraphale’s reactions—microexpressions holding amusement and contemplation and pleasure as he read through the rest. When he finished, he closed the book—set it on his desk. “That’s very _you,_ ” he said.

Crowley made a face. “What’s that mean?”

Aziraphale paused. “Well, a lot of it, but, _’It’s good because it’s awful.’_ Though not _good_ , of course, in your case.”

Crowley grinned and took a sip of his scotch.

“That was clever,” Aziraphale said, again. He meant the essay—and refrained from extending thanks. 

“I thought so.”

They settled into the afternoon; the conversation turned to other things. Drinks turned to dinner. Day turned to night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Camp only having one relevant meaning in my brain (and it not involving tents) and this idea finally motivated me to read _Notes on Camp_. If you're curious, you also can [here](https://monoskop.org/images/5/59/Sontag_Susan_1964_Notes_on_Camp.pdf).


End file.
